


Remembering Azanulbizar

by carolxdanvers



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Battle of Azanulbizar, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 08:32:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carolxdanvers/pseuds/carolxdanvers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Eastern gates of Moria saw a bloody battle. Many fell, and Frerin, son of Thràin, son of Thrór, was counted among them. But the fate of the middle child of Thràin was much worse than death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remembering Azanulbizar

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU account of the battle of Azanulbizar from Frerin's viewpoint. There were no beta readers for this, so if I have stated anything that is grievously incorrect, please, let me know! This is also my first fanfic, so concrit is more than welcome. I know it's very brief. It was originally intended as a background for Frerin in a roleplay.

He was only 48 when they made for Azanulbizar.

Frerin had always been an eager boy. When Thorin was permitted to fight, the younger brother was quick to volunteer his own blade. Thràin was hesitant, but the king had requested every willing and able-bodied, dwarf available. So he found himself assigned to the outer troops, a group that would contain the battle within the valley. It was a relatively safe position, one that allowed Frerin to fight without risking him in the heart of the battle. He was only ever meant to keep the majority of the enemy in the center of the valley— and he was doing a fine enough job of it, until he heard a roar of victory followed by one of heart-wrenching agony.

Then he saw the head of his grandfather held aloft in victory by a pale orc, saw Thorin charging the beast alone. Desperate to assist his brother against the orc that had killed Thrór, he began to fight his way toward him. But even as he killed those in his path, he saw Thorin’s shield thrown from him. Ignoring those around him, he charged toward Azog, praying he could reach him before Thorin was killed.

In his haste, he was struck down, and he fell where he stood, his entire torso soaked in his own blood, his lips silently forming his brother’s name. Thinking him dead, the orcs stepped over him and continued their carnage. Frerin turned his head and looked into the glazed, empty eyes of a dwarf that, minutes before, had fought at his side. A great warrior had so quickly become a corpse, a single number among so many. A drop in the bucket. 

Tears streaking his filthy face, the young prince lifted the body of the warrior, laying the corpse across his own body. Pain shot through him as the weight of another person rested on his wounds, but the cold grip of fear kept him moving until he had shifted himself beneath the bodies of his kinsmen. And he laid there, slipping in and out of consciousness as he heard the cries of the dying around him.

His grandfather was dead. He was certain his brother was as well. When at last the fear released its paralysis on him, the sounds of battle were quieter— muffled, somewhat, by the deafness of blood loss. He could not fight this way. He might be able to kill a few more, but doing so would undoubtedly be suicide. He would be a hero. The word turned his stomach.

He fell forward into a muddy mixture of blood and dirt, crawled on hands and knees, hiding near piles of corpses from the sounds of fighting. His head spinning, his only thought was escape, to slip unnoticed from the battle and spare his own life.

When he made it to the edge of the valley, he ran, his body aching with every movement he made. He stifled his sobs in the crook of his elbow as he fled, pushed onward by pure terror. When at last he came to a river, Frerin fell to his knees at the bank, pressing his face into the cool stream. The rest of his strength left him and he fell forward, staining the water with billowing clouds of red. His body drifted in the waters, and his mind drifted in the ether, both of them caught between two worlds: one a world of light and pain, the other cool and soothing and silent. 

When he was pulled from the water, his body was cold. He felt nothing but the warmth of the tears on his cheeks. 

Waking dreams took hold of him. Reality wavered. Thorin stood over him, speaking in a voice not his own. He reached up to touch his face, and when Thorin pushed his hand aside and pressed wet cloths to his wounds, his face changed into that of a stranger and he remembered his brother lying defenseless at the feet of the orc. He sobbed for his family and swooned. 

There were voices sometimes. Cool water being tipped down his throat. A hot, bitter broth burned his tongue. He was in a room, there was a chair beside him. Someone held their palm on his head and hummed a foreign tune. His grandfather’s head was hanging above him, Thorin’s body on the floor. Their eyes stared at him, judging him, and when he screamed, wrinkled fingers touched his lips and thick arms wrapped around him. A stranger’s voice spoke soothing words.

When his fever broke, he slept. 

When he woke, it was night. The house was quiet. An old man slept on a pallet by the bed where Frerin lay. His entire body stung and ached, and it took several minutes before his memories returned to him. He didn’t cry again. What had pained him before was now a dead place in his heart, and the shame of his desertion hung over him. He was quiet when he rose. He dressed in silence and laid his family signet on the table by the bed. He had no right to wear it any longer, and he knew it would more than pay for the strangers’ kindness. 

The old man woke when the door closed. He would find the ring the next morning, but he would never sell it. 

When he again reached the valley, it was morning. The birds sang cheerily and the sun warmed his face as he looked down at his kin piled together like garbage. His chest stinging, he moved toward the place where he had last seen his brother. The bodies were too numerous to avoid. He walked on top of them. The valley was silent, but he could hear shouts and metal against metal. He could hear Thorin’s voice above it as he fell back, his shield and his sword stripped from him. The shield was not unique, but Frerin knew it when he saw it. He lifted it from the ground and turned his back on Azanulbizar. 

For quite some time he wandered the Wilderland. He could not go to the Iron Hills where he may be recognized, and so he spent much of his time a lone wanderer, occasionally venturing to Gondor for work or supplies. When at last his beard began to grow in earnest, he cut it off as close as he could manage. Beards were a mark of pride, and he had none. And then, carrying only his brother’s shield and a few supplies, he started out for Ered Luin. 

Through fortune or fate or the will of Mahal, he came to a forge in the Blue Mountains seeking work. He was turned away. They already had all the help they needed, the man explained, gesturing back to the dwarf working in the sweltering room. Frerin thanked him and left. When Thorin left the forge that evening, he was followed at a distance. 

Never revealing himself, Frerin lived the years just outside of his brother’s sight. He no longer deserved to share the blood in his veins with the quiet hero that he watched from afar. Better to have a corpse of a brother than a coward.


End file.
